


A Night Like This

by Cephy



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Job, Community: no_true_pair, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-01
Updated: 2008-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:52:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephy/pseuds/Cephy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years, a whole lot of miles and one near-apocalypse later...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night Like This

Despite the fact that it had been five years, a whole lot of miles and one near-apocalypse since the last time he'd sat in a bar to celebrate with people of like mind-- some things, Zack thought bemusedly, never changed.

There weren't many left-- most of the regular patrons had already gone off to their own private celebrations or their beds, depending on how the stress of the last few days had affected them. Yuffie had bolted to the alley an hour before; he'd seen her crawling upstairs a short while later, green enough that she could have been back in the air. Barret and Cid, though, were still at the next table over, glaring blearily at each other over a sea of empty glasses, both of them swaying in place and determined not to be the first to go-- while Tifa sat to one side, smiling cheerfully at them over her own pile of glasses. Zack snorted, completely unsurprised.

Cloud was curled up on the bench by the stairs, eyes half-closed, his cheeks faintly flushed. Zack's smile softened as he glanced over, and he sent up another brief but heartfelt _thank you_ to whatever had helped them get out of that lab. Cloud still wasn't-- wasn't quite _right_, and the mess with Sephiroth hadn't helped at all. But he was better. He was _getting_ better, and that's all they could hope for. With any luck a little bit of peace, if not quiet-- with all the reconstruction, nothing was going to be _quiet_ for a while-- would do him good.

Hell, it'd do both of them good.

Leather creaked as Vincent shifted; Zack grinned at nothing and kept his arm right where it was. He'd settled it in its current postion earlier when it looked like Vincent was about to get up and leave, and just hadn't bothered to move it since. It had been a bit of a surprise when the arched eyebrow and unimpressed look he got for his efforts wasn't followed by anything more than a resigned sigh, but hey, by now even Vincent had to be feeling a little of the celebratory spirit. No doubt aided along by the celebratory _spirits_, of which they had consumed quite a few-- necessary, given the enhanced state of both their metabolisms, and probably Cloud's too if he hadn't been so exhausted.

Zack knew the solution to that problem, though, and that was simply to drink _more_. The waitress had eventually figured things out and just started leaving the bottle.

Across the room, Cid slid slowly from his bench onto the floor. Barret slapped the table as he laughed, sending glasses in a clattering spill, then hiccuped faintly and fell forward until his head was pillowed on his arms.

Tifa snorted audibly, then got up with only a slight stumble and went over to sit next to Cloud, pulling his head into her lap. Zack swallowed his grin, though it was a difficult task. _You go, Spike._

"Looks like that's that," he murmured, tipping his head to the side; Vincent's hair ticked his jaw as the man leaned in to hear. "Probably time to close up." Time to lay the latest bottle to rest, to head upstairs, and if he hung onto Vincent's arm a bit more than strictly necessary it was only because the stairs were tricky things, prone to rearranging themselves when he wasn't looking. Nothing at all to do with the oddly dissapointed feeling he got when they reached the top and he was faced with the door to his own solitary room. Probably.

It had just been a really _good_ night, was all, and it seemed--

Vincent shifted against his shoulder, and Zack turned his head to find the man looking towards his own room with a similar reluctance. Well, a Vincent-style reluctance, which meant it wasn't much of an expression at all, and remarkably similar to the look that meant _you want me to go where with who now, and are you sure I can't just shoot something instead?_ But Zack liked to think he knew _that_ one well enough by now, and this new look was subtly different. A little lost, maybe, a little lonely, and hell, he was always a sucker for that kind of thing. Had to be a real bitch to be locked up for thirty years and then thrown into a war, after all, with a whole lot of genetic fuckery and a golden claw standing between you and the rest of the world.

Hell, _five_ years locked up and then thrown into a war was still more than enough to make a body a little starved for human contact. Not that he would know anything about that.

"I should," Vincent muttered, and made a gesture as if to go to his own room. And Zack hesitated only a second before giving a mental shrug and deciding why the hell not, it usually didn't hurt to ask.

"Do you really want to?" he said, trying on a grin. Vincent blinked back, at first surprised and then narrowly considering. Easy to remember, when he was wearing that expression, that he'd been a Turk, and Zack offered up a disarming shrug in response. "Seems kinda wrong to end off a night like this alone, don't you think?"

And there, that little frown disappearing, that might have been understanding. It softened Vincent's features, made him something like beautiful in the soft hall light. Zack leaned in, testing, and when Vincent tipped up his chin, he kissed him.

He backed them into the room, hands busy on clothes. They were both fighters-- there were enough buckles and straps and reinforced bits to their clothing that it made getting completely undressed a longer process than either of them liked. And even when the clothes finally did give way, they still wore their profession on their skin-- and of more than that, in the heavy scarring around Vincent's shoulder above that golden arm, the thin, deliberate lines that made Zack's mouth twist in recognition. Zack had a few of those, himself, like the one that ran the length of his ribs, the one that Vincent was tracing with a knowing finger.

_Didn't get us, though_, he thought fiercely, and leaned down to mouth along the ridges of scar tissue. _None of them were enough to kill us._

Zack did finally get Vincent's pants open, drew him out and leaned to swallow him down, earning a ragged gasp and a clink as metal fingers flexed. Zack did his best to grin around his mouthful, and closed his eyes, settled into the pleasantly fuzzy rhythm that was only broken by the clutch of fingers in his hair and a warning tug, and moments later by a hot rush that reminded him more than a little of the tang of mako.

When Zack lifted his head, Vincent was lying sprawled with eyes closed and chest heaving. He roused when Zack slid up his body, pressing hips against Vincent's leg and hissing at the sudden friction. Vincent smirked, a thoroughly wicked expression that certain younger Turks had obviously been trying to perfect, and when he pushed at Zack's shoulder, Zack went willingly.

As Vincent's mouth descended, Zack leaned his head back and grinned at nothing and everything. Yep, five years, a whole lot of miles and one near-apocalypse later-- and life was starting to finally look up again.


End file.
